


Gnashing Teeth and Criminal Tongues

by detritius



Series: You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Chilton tries to figure things out so you know it's not going to end well, Coercion, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Power Imbalance, Restraints, Voyeurism, not much smut in part one sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5928249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If being far too appealing was a crime, Graham would be guilty as sin. And that's all Chilton really knows for sure. Followup to Tawdry Dreams All Come to Life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who commented on Tawdry Dreams, thank you, and I'm sorry it took me such a long time to respond. But I wanted to have something solid down before I went ahead and said yes, there will be a sequel. I hope this fic lives up to expectations.
> 
> Title is from "This Is Gospel" by Panic! at the Disco.

Dr. Chilton reclines at his desk and meditatively swirls a finger of well-aged Scotch around the bottom of a glass. His laptop is open in front of him, showing audio feeds from all his various microphones, but the sound waves are monotonous and flat, nothing but the occasional blip, probably static. It's late, long after dark, and as far as he knows, the only waking people in the building are himself, the nightshift orderly, and, hopefully, the two guards on watch. The cellblocks have all gone quiet.

He takes a pull from his glass and tips his head back, letting his eyes fall closed. He can't drink much now without making himself sick, another little quirk of his altered physiology, courtesy of Abel Gideon. He knows he ought to switch to something softer, easier on his debilitated body, but good liquor is one indulgence he will not deny himself, not with all the things he has already been denied. And tonight, at least, he could use the liquid courage. He breathes in, enjoying the slow, deep burn of the Scotch as he swallows, already feeling its effects. It works on him quickly, as quickly now as when he was only a callow sophomore, swilling cheap beer with the rest of them and pretending to enjoy its bitterness and his classmates' boorish company. Out of place even then, an overly stiff young man who always insisted on his full name, not Freddy, not Fred.

But he is no longer that disaffected youth, neither bold nor politic enough, the fumbling, blurting schoolboy who was so easily diminished, excluded, and dismissed. He has seized every opportunity that chanced across his path and carved out a life for himself, one of sophistication and hard-earned luxuries. Among equals in his field, he is not as well-recognized as he would like, but his name does carry some weight, and he has risen to a position that demands respect. Within his hospital, here, in his domain, he is absolute.

Emboldened by that thought, he clicks open the audio feed for the microphone in Graham's cell.

Yesterday and the day before, after business hours, he sat here drumming his fingers on the dark wood of his desk, just trying to get himself through this. The folds and creases of his clothes pressed into him, his skin felt too tight, and there was a prickling heat at the base of his neck, as if he was the one being watched. He came this far and faltered. Now, he tries to hold his anxieties down as his headphones pop and hiss into life. Since the incident in interrogation, he has been unable to complete the evening ritual that used to ease his mind, and he's beginning to think he will not feel right in this office until he manages it. The rhythm of his days is fractured, starting to unravel, and he needs to restore some sense of normalcy. Not that there's anything particularly _normal_ about any of this.

At first, he did it just to listen to the soft sounds of Graham breathing in the dark. Chilton could rest easy then, knowing his most dangerous inmate was accounted for. He had every reason to be preoccupied with thoughts of an escape after the last one, with all its consequences. He would not allow Graham to take a piece of him, as Gideon had.

He can hear Graham breathing now, slow and deep. Nothing is amiss, and Chilton could take off his headphones and close down his laptop and put as much distance between himself and this as he can, at least for the night. The cowardly part of him, perhaps the saner part, longs to do just that, but no. Here, in his sanctum, he cannot abide the taste of fear. He will not slink off with his tail between his legs and cede this place to Graham, another part of him wrenched away. He intends to face this, all of it. And it's been a long time since he only listened long enough to ensure Graham was still in his cell. 

That went on for a few weeks at most, until, on one of those nights, he overheard Graham pleasuring himself. It should have repulsed him -- it _did_ repulse him -- and yet... Graham had been so reserved with him, so constrained, obstinately blank in all their sessions. All his considerable mental resources rallied against Chilton, holding him at a distance, keeping him in the dark. So hearing his buttoned-up, tight-lipped patient gasping, panting, trying to stifle his cries, Chilton felt a surge of sharp-edged pleasure. It wasn't sexual, at least, not then; it felt like triumph. After being thwarted by Graham at every turn, it was a relief to hear him come apart. A reminder that, for all his vicious cunning, Graham was no more than a man.

The first time was a coincidence, and he'd swear on his mother's eyes that the next few were, too. But before long, Chilton began to anticipate it, and in a succession of long and fruitless days, he saw no reason not to partake. Graham made it easier than perhaps it should have been. He proved to be both predictable and... prolific. Before long, Chilton had fallen into unspoken synch with him, ready when he was, both of them seeking some form of release. But even on those occasions when Chilton became aroused, he never stimulated himself to Graham's voice crying out into the dark. That would have defeated the purpose; in those moments, Graham was overthrown by his base urges, and Chilton had no desire to become the same sort of weak and yielding creature. Far better to listen from his distant perch, secure in his strength and superiority.

Ending his days that way soothed Chilton and took the edge off his frustration, at least, until Graham's trial. Then he watched, confounded, as witness after witness for both the prosecution and defense lavished Graham with superlatives, stroking his inflated ego -- for the love of god, Prunell called him a supervillain. And Graham sat there and soaked it up. His outward appearance didn't change -- he was trying to look pitiful for the benefit of the court -- but Chilton recognized his wry hauteur from their sessions together. Seeing that flat and distant look in his eyes, Chilton had felt his fury starting to build, like the first hazy aurae preceding a migraine. And then the new murders, the mistrial, rendering the whole excruciating exercise pointless. It was more, he thought, than anyone could bear.  
Chilton had to do something to turn back the rising tide, to show Graham that he was not -- is not -- the mythology created by agents and attorneys and the hysterical press. No matter what is said about him, no matter what depraved acts or avowals of loyalty he may inspire, in here, he is nothing but a piece of human refuse. Easy enough to outmaneuver, with his restricted movements and countless little weaknesses. He is at the mercy of this institution, and there is very little he can do about it. Or so Chilton believed, and that is where he made his mistake. Vulnerability, he discovered, does not make Graham any less dangerous. With his back against a wall, he is at his most disarming, and all the cuffs and shackles in the world don't matter when he can sow discord with just his poisoned lips and pleading eyes.

It's no wonder he has continued to exert so much influence from behind bars.

Chilton is roused from his slightly drunken musings when he hears Graham's breathing speed and roughen, and he lets out a shaky breath of his own. He'd half thought he was too late. There's a quiet catch in Graham's voice, a familiar, needy little whine, and then a new sound, strange and muffled, as though there's something in his mouth. "Feeling shy, are you, Mr. Graham?" Chilton asks, barely conscious of saying the words aloud. "Do you really mean to tell me you didn't know before?" He shifts in his chair, leaning back, opening his legs to accommodate the growing stiffness between them. "You tell everyone that I am recording your conversations. Why should this be any different?"

But of course, although he knew he was under surveillance, Graham had no reason to suspect Chilton was monitoring him with anything more than acquisitive interest. Chilton had never intended him to know. If all had gone according to plan, Graham would have believed the little strip show he found himself starring in was expressly for the purpose of his humiliation. How much more degrading for him if he was forced to expose himself while his extortionist watched with a cool and disinterested eye? Chilton had meant Graham to see it only as an act of dominance. It could have been something else, any demeaning thing. He could have made Graham kneel down and spit-shine his shoes.

Listening to the faint sounds drifting up to him, Chilton can't help but picture it: Graham lowering himself, bending his dark head, wetting his lips, swallowing, nervous, the pink flick of his tongue, an uneven breath -- _yes, like that_ \-- a grimace at the taste, the shine of spit on good Italian leather. Chilton lets out a low and discontented moan. He's hard -- uncomfortably hard in his pressed and fitted pants -- and making far more noise than Graham is, little more than the dull, repeated thump of weight settling and the creak of a rusted bedframe coming over the speakers. Any vocalizations are smothered, caught in cloth and filler from the sound. Graham must be facedown, only moving his hips, trying and failing not to rub himself off on the thin pad that serves him as a mattress. Body jerking a little, ass lifting into the air... Chilton pictures that, too, and his hand steals down between his thighs. Before, he would have skirted guiltily around the edges of those thoughts, appalled by the enjoyment he derived from them. Attraction to a man like Graham, even knowing what he was, seemed sufficiently suggestive of a deranged mind to earn Chilton a cell alongside him. Now, he surrenders himself to the rush of prurient longings. Easier to think of Graham as a sex object than admit to himself that he doesn't know what to think.

And the thought breaks over him like an icy wave, chilling him to to bone. _No, no, please no, for Christ's sake, not now!_ For days, he's felt it at the edges of his consciousness, a dark and swarming mass, felt it like the creeping nighttime dread of walking alone after dark and _knowing_ that you are being followed. As long as you show them your back, the skulking things are only shadows, but the second you turn to look, they'll coalesce and rear up over you, freezing you in your steps, ripping away your breath before you can scream.

And in that unguarded moment, lightheaded with drink and breathless with need, Chilton forget to avert his eyes. 

_If Hannibal finds out about this, he'll kill you._

The words echo around and around in his head, distorting the shapes of any thoughts they touch. The riptide winds around his ankles and drags his legs from under him. The beast looms up from the darkness and swallows him whole.

Chilton knows that Graham is guilty. Any rational person can see it, the evidence is nearly indisputable, and if he thought there was even a chance that he was innocent, Chilton would never... But slouched and defeated, come all over him, Graham uttered those few and weary words, and in that moment, Chilton had believed him. 

_If Hannibal finds out, he'll kill you._

He walked into that interrogation room without a doubt that Graham killed all those people. Now, doubts are all he has.

He's haunted by Hannibal, a man he's known for years and who, if he wasn't so insufferably accomplished, he would almost consider a friend. There are pieces that no longer fit together, associations breaking apart and re-forming in hideous and unutterable ways. Fragments of conversations float across the surface of his mind -- _in that case, you are dining with a psychopathic murderer_ \-- and Chilton shudders. He cannot believe it. Can he? 

Hannibal is odd, certainly, a little cold and more than a little inscrutable. Admittedly, it is all too easy to imagine him engaged in some form of depravity, although Chilton would have guessed his proclivities to be less violent than sexual. And the man does have a strange and morbid sense of humor, but that is hardly a crime. Outside the context of Graham's baseless accusations, it's even fairly innocuous, just a part of Hannibal's personality. Chilton had always just attributed it to his eastern European origins. How many of Dr. Lecter's eccentricities, in fact, can be explained by his being foreign-born? All the little things that seem so... _off_ about him may simply be the results of cultural distance. And as cursed clever as Graham is supposed to be, he probably picked Hannibal for precisely that reason. A calculated appeal to xenophobia and class resentments -- easier for the average person to suspect Hannibal Lecter, with that accent, those ridiculous suits, than unassuming, blue-collar Will Graham. Even without a shred of evidence against him, there would be a certain insidious appeal to the idea that Hannibal is guilty. Chilton himself cannot entirely discount it, and he is a man of the world, not East Nowhere, Virginia -- or wherever it is Graham comes from -- where one arguably would find a jury of Graham's peers.

Not a bad strategy, if employed to sway the credulous towards reasonable doubt. And in the meantime, continuing to point at Hannibal makes Graham look confused and frightened and damaged, which dovetails neatly with Alana Bloom's unconsciousness defense. As for Chilton and what he thought, well, Graham saw through him -- he allowed Graham to see through him, foolishly gave him that opportunity -- and he had all the information he needed to send Chilton spiraling into uncertainty. All he had to do was behave contrary to the profile that Chilton spelled out for him along with everyone else at his trial. Graham saw his insecurities and in his narcissistic mind, that likely translated into the belief that he is proud to a fault, prepared to do anything to protect his career and his jealously-guarded reputation. Graham imagined a version of Chilton as amoral as himself, who would sooner see him exonerated than destroy his own meticulously constructed diagnosis. And though he is not that man, Chilton's desire to stand by his original conclusions did ring true, enough that he played right into Graham's hands. Chilton underestimated Graham, and Graham played him.

The thoughts come thick and fast and reeling, but none of them are new to him. At the back of his mind, he has been making these connections, these rationalizations, for days now. He just hasn't been able to acknowledge them consciously, flinching away from any thought of Lecter or Will at all, because no matter how he turns it over in his head, all his reasoning has ultimately been futile. Nothing has changed since he left Will Graham in that interrogation room. He has heard every detail of the case, and he knows the conclusions he should be drawing. But what he knows, what he _should_ know -- it's meaningless to the voices of his doubt. Even with all the evidence laid out for him, Dr. Frederick Chilton does not know what he believes.

Over the speakers, the sound of creaking metal speeds up to a near-constant squeal, then slows, stops. A final, muffled groan, a half-hearted thump, and Graham's breathing, thin and spent. He must have finished, then, although it doesn't sound as though he got much satisfaction from it. Chilton can see him in his mind's eye, the crease between his dark brows, the shine of his eyes in the dark, the coarse weave of the mattress cover imprinted on his cheek. He hears Graham's heavy sigh and imagines him brushing the sweat-damp hair out of his face, pulling the fabric of his jumpsuit from away from his groin -- maybe he'd strip off if the detention area wasn't so cold -- to keep it from sticking to the mess there, sliding half off his cot, occupying only the cleaner part of the mattress, before giving up and just curling over the wet patch, consigning himself to sleep. And though he's alone in his office, Chilton forces himself to turn away. His lurid fantasies have become understandable to him, but not this. In all his previous imaginings, Graham -- Will -- never looked so much like a man, just a man, beaten and weary and painfully alone.

This is what lies behind all his grasping illations: Will Graham's unspeakable, inescapable humanity. Chilton had wanted to see it, to refute his nameless fears, but he got too close, saw too much. And now he doesn't know what the truth is anymore. All his professional objectivity is compromised, and there is no clarity to take its place. He's left only with those feelings he's tried his hardest to deny, frustrated need and inarticulate longing. So much within his reach and, now as much as ever, he's close enough to look, unable to touch.

He should have just taken what he wanted.

Yes. That's why he can't stop thinking about this. He denied himself his resolution and now he can't move past it. All his clamoring thoughts are only manifestations of a primal need for closure. And in a life full of might-have-beens, disappointments and regrets, this is one he still has the chance to rectify. Graham is still at his disposal. There is no reason his desires should not be fulfilled, and then, sated, fade away. If he gratifies himself, uses Graham to put all but his most depraved fantasies to rest, the man will no longer have this hold over him. Thoroughly broken in, his allure will be dimmed, gilt rubbed away, familiarity allowing for contempt. And once Graham is out of his system, the tilting world will right itself, his doubts will be appeased, and there will be order and sanity in his life again.

At last, he knows what he has to do. To get Graham out of his head, Chilton will have to finish what he started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section took just about forever, and I am sorry about that. I did a couple of passes, going through, streamlining, coming up with conclusions for Chilton that seemed somewhat reasonable and in-line with the information at his disposal, but still, you know, wrong, which is kind of a weird line to walk. But between those passes, I actually banged out a good chunk of Part Two, so, I can't promise anything, but I'm hoping to have it up by Valentine's Day. Not the most romantic of offerings, but hey, I'm pretty sure it's still a better love story than Fifty Shades of Grey.
> 
> Chilton fully knows Will lives in Wolf Trap, by the way, he's just fronting like he doesn't because knowing random details about him might make it seem like Chilton is obsessed with Will or something, and he totally, totally, isn't. :P


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry I've been away so long. Life has been happening, good things mostly, but I've been too busy to write much. I hope I haven't gotten too rusty. If anyone's still reading this story, thank you so much for your patience. This is a short installment, mostly to get myself posting again. Hopefully I'll be able to get back into a groove.

The next morning sees Dr. Chilton en route to Graham's cell, doing his best to ignore the lingering remnants of his hangover and trying not to lose his nerve. He cannot silence the craven little voice at the back of his head, whispering _must we do this now?_  He can even see the sense in it -- Graham certainly isn't going anywhere, and Chilton could take some time, think this through, or at least spend another hour or so in bed with a cool cloth over his eyes. It's Saturday, and no one is expecting him. He doesn't need to be here at all. It would be so easy to turn around and leave this for another day, when he's feeling easier in his mind. But last night's resolve has settled under his skin like an electric current. He wants this -- no, he needs this. He cannot remain helpless in Graham's thrall for even a moment longer.

  
The guard standing watch outside maximum security raises an eyebrow as he approaches. Chilton rarely comes down here. Why should he, when he can have any of the prisoners brought to him at his convenience? As an administrator, Dr. Chilton is far too busy to take regular jaunts down to the lowest levels. But that does not mean he must confine himself to his office, or that the staff has any right to question him. He stops within a foot of the guard, raising a far more imperious brow in return, and the guard takes a step back, his hands coming up in a brief, defensive gesture as he falls all over himself to unlock the gate. Chilton cannot help lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders as he passes through. This is his hospital, and he will do as he likes.

  
Faintly, from down the ward, comes the rise and fall of irrelevant chatter. The individual words are indistinct, flattened and distorted in their reverberations, but the casual, workaday tone is clear enough. Ordinarily, the only voices to be heard in maximum security are those that rave or moan or scream. It must be a cleaning day. 

  
The babble of conversation turns soft and strained as Chilton's footsteps echo down the hall, punctuated by the distinctive tap of his cane. By the time he reaches Graham’s cell, an unnatural hush has settled over the attendants there. None of his employees will look at him, and they scarcely dare to glance at one another as they pretend complete absorption in their tasks. That's just fine. Chilton didn’t come for them.

  
Graham has been wheeled out into the corridor and faced away from his cell, as if that will serve to conceal anything from him. Doubtless he already knows these weekly cleanings are little more than an excuse to search for illicit correspondence and other contraband, not that he seems to take much notice. He doesn't so much as look up as his mattress is flipped, his few belongings rifled. He stares at the wall, his eyes half-focused, awake, drugged, or dreaming; if there is any truth to his alleged parasomnias, it would be difficult to tell. Graham is immobilized too fully even to sag in his bonds, strapped to a handtruck and arrayed in all his regalia. Chilton cannot deny the brutal truth of him, not with the restraining bands tightened around his ankles, thighs, and waist, his arms bound up in a straightjacket, the transparent mask covering the lower part of his face. Graham is a wild thing in a snare, a viper defanged. He may not even be able to speak -- Chilton doesn't know if the mask is designed to hold his jaw shut, or just to put a barrier between the attendants and his teeth. A thin mist forms on the inside of the reinforced glass covering Graham’s mouth as he exhales, the only discernible movement besides the slow blink of his eyes.

  
Chilton is struck by the sight of him, the cruel irony that such a man should be so beautiful.  _Like this,_ he realizes,  _god, even like this._  

And this is how he'll stay until the handful of orderlies and custodians have retreated beyond the barrier, to the safety of the upper floors. It isn't strictly necessary to secure him so fully just to access his cell, but it does put the staff at ease. Aside from Brown, this is the only way they'll even come near him.  
Brown leans against a nearby wall, rolling a cigarette, one eye on Graham all the time. He's turned away from his colleagues, showing them only bored and lofty unconcern, as if their movements have no greater significance than the crawling of ants to him. Graham himself is Brown's charge. He'll be the one who came in first and subdued Graham somehow -- to all appearances, Brown is too slight to overpower Graham even with the use of a nightstick, and he doesn't carry a taser. Most likely, he administered a sedative, although how he got Graham to offer his arm for the needle is anyone's guess.

  
If that's the case, Chilton really will have to postpone what he has planned. 

  
Won't he?

  
He made it clear what he intends to do to Graham, and Graham accepted his terms, his body in exchange for Chilton's silence. If he can't refuse in any case, does it matter if he isn't fully conscious?

  
Chilton is sick with himself at the thought. He's not... He'd never... not with someone drugged to the point of incapacity. He has never even thought that way before. But Graham... The evidence says Graham liked his victims awake while he mutilated them, slowly and deliberately, prolonging their pain and terror. He forfeited his right to humane treatment when he committed those inhumane acts. If Graham is guilty, it’s no more than he deserves.

  
If he is guilty.

  
Chilton shudders, doubles up and wraps his arms around himself. The chill of maximum security must be getting to him. He shouldn’t be down here, a man in his condition. When he straightens, he sees Graham watching him. Those blue eyes have cleared and his gaze is intent, sardonic and assessing. It's hard to tell through the misted glass, but a smirk seems to pull at the corner of his mouth.

  
_Of course._ If there is any other thought in his head, any shred of relief, he suppresses it. He should have known Graham wouldn't allow himself to be sedated. He's far too careful for that, and wouldn't cede such an advantage unless he had no choice. No doubt that’s why he's cooperating, so as not to give the uneasy members of the staff an excuse. All part of his design. Even locked up and restrained like this, Graham is in control.

  
A grim smile crosses Chilton's face. _Not for long._

"Take him down from there." His voice is too loud in the near silence, ringing hollowly off the bare stone walls. Inside the cell, the orderlies and the cleaning crew go still, but Brown only cocks his head at Chilton, surveying him with glinting magpie eyes. Brown has a lopsided mouth, raised at one corner in a fixed and permanent half-smirk. A congenital aberration, most likely, which gives him a lisp that strangles his words in their infancy and a perpetual expression of sardonic amusement. 

  
Fixture of his face or not, at the moment Dr. Chilton is not well-disposed to tolerate even the appearance of insubordination.

  
He crosses to the young man and addresses him directly. "I said, take him down. I have business with Mr. Graham in my office."

  
Brown doesn't balk at his proximity or his tone, doesn't blink, only shrugs and turns to Graham. Chilton doesn't miss the way Graham's eyes flick to Brown as he sees to him with the ease of long practice. His hands are fast and deft. With the first layer of Graham's restraints undone, Brown grips him by the shoulder, and Graham stirs reactively at the touch. He leans forward, into the curve of Brown's outstretched arm, and a look passes between them. Graham, who has spent months avoiding Chilton's gaze, seeks out Brown's dark eyes, and as Brown looks back, the base metal glint in those eyes seems to soften. The lower corner of his mouth lifts in an almost natural smile. It’s fleeting, but for the second time this week, Chilton feels as though he isn't even in the room. Brown pulls Graham toward him, his hands coming to rest on his back, his neck, his hip. Gently, he helps Graham down.

  
"That's enough." Chilton intercedes between them, shouldering Brown aside without a glance in his direction. "I'll take him from here. See that we aren't disturbed." It's a clear dismissal, but Brown doesn't step back. Watching him peripherally, Chilton sees neither fear nor deference in his manner, and that rankles more than it should. What is Brown to him? Nothing. Nothing at all. He turns to Graham and takes him by the elbow. "Come."  

  
Graham does not struggle as he's led away, but he won't look at Chilton. His eyes are downcast as though he's fully occupied with every step he takes, but Chilton knows better. Even restricted by the straightjacket, Graham moves with enviable grace. Chilton can no more picture him stumbling than a hawk, mid-flight, dropping like a stone.  
Chilton can't help watching him out of the corner of his eye, realizing over and over that this is really happening. Graham is close, so close he can breathe the scent coming off his skin. Some of the inmates are filthy, streaked with it like plague rats, but not Graham. He smells of white bar soap and tired lemons, a whiff of bleach following him up from his cell. Something about that smell is disquieting. Infinitely preferable to the ones who reek, of course, but faintly unpleasant nonetheless, clinical, cold, and lifeless, evocative of rubber gloves, beeping monitors, the hiss and release of a respirator. Worse things, too, best left buried. Another shiver runs down Chilton's spine, despite the warming air as they ascend. He may have to procure better soap for Graham’s use as long as this arrangement lasts, something more suited to Chilton's tastes, sandalwood, perhaps, or dark musks mingled with smoke and cracked black pepper. But as soon as he's had the thought, he dismisses it. Graham is his prisoner and his adversary, not his mistress.  
Suddenly, he’s acutely aware of the security cameras, and of the way he must look with his hand on Graham’s arm. If anyone is watching on the monitors, might they suspect..? But no, he has every right to meet with his prisoner in privacy, and it is only natural he would take some care with his straightjacketed charge, lest he fall. Still, he cannot help but feel relived when they make it to his office without incident, and as he shuts the door behind them, Chilton nearly offers up a prayer of thanks before realizing just how inappropriate that would be. 

  
Graham's head snaps up at the click of the lock, a hard light reflected in his eyes. It's gone in a heartbeat, and he's staring down at the floor again. His shoulders slump, and he seems to curl in on himself, losing inches of his height. Silence builds between them like the heaviness of a gathering storm. 

  
Chilton swallows and tries to speak. Now that they are alone, his mouth is impossibly dry and he doesn't know where to look or what to do with his hands. It's absurdly reminiscent of the first time he had a girl in the back of his car. So much time spent thinking about it, and then, sitting there next to her, all he could do was tentatively brush her shoulder. In all his fantasies, he would have had one hand down her blouse and the other up her skirt, but in the living moment, he couldn’t even put his arm around her.

  
Here, with Graham, it's even worse. In his wasted youth, Chilton knew what he would have done, if he’d only had the nerve. Now, he's at a loss. He approaches Graham like a cornered animal that might snap at him if he gets too close. _Easy, boy,_ he doesn't say, and feels hysteria rising.

  
"I'm going to take off your mask," he says instead, fighting for control of his voice. "I want to see your face."

  
Graham doesn't answer, possibly still can't, as Chilton circles around behind him. He lays a hand on the back of Graham's neck, feeling the muscles there tense like a coiled spring. Graham’s whole body is rigid, and he’s pulling in the rapid, shallow breaths of a man trying to hide his fear. "Shh," Chilton murmurs, without really meaning to. "Shhh...” He finds himself just stroking Graham's hair, letting Graham get used to his touch, falling into a rhythm as his breathing starts to ease. It’s only when he gets the urge to press his lips to Graham’s neck that he realizes. He coughs and straightens his shoulders, wanting to recoil from his own unintended gentleness. But he can’t quite make himself distant, and even when he tries to play it off, the words come out hushed and unconvincing. “Can’t have you passing out, now, can we?”

  
Graham’s short exhale manages to sound skeptical.

  
Chilton turns his attention back to the mask, trying to focus only on working the fastenings. It should be an easy enough, but there’s something soft and confiding even in untangling the straps that have become ensnared in Graham's dark curls. His hands shake a little, and he’s disgusted with himself.

  
At last, the mask starts to slip. When it is loosened and hanging crookedly from one ear, Chilton lifts off the faceplate and sets the whole cumbersome thing aside. At last, he can turn back to Graham, facing him again. Without the obstruction of the mask, he had hoped... he does not know what he had hoped. But Graham doesn't give anything away, his eyes still averted, his expression closed and barred. The dull, persistent ache in Chilton's temples intensifies as he grinds his teeth together. He seizes Graham's chin and forces his head up, expecting to see that bored, disdainful, dead-eyed look he has so come to loathe. But Graham meets his eyes mildly, steadily, and any harshness in Chilton's grip melts away. Something in those eyes makes him catch his breath and steals the strength from his limbs. 

  
His hand lingers against Graham's cheek, and his voice, lost in his chest, emerges soft and hoarse. "You could use a shave, Mr. Graham."

  
Something like a smile pulls at the corner of Graham's mouth. "You'd let me have a razor?"

  
Chilton touches Graham just where his expression changed, the place on his cheek where a dimple might be. "Not a chance." Unable to stop himself, he cups Graham's jaw, caressing over stubble and then soft and yielding skin, dragging his thumb across those awful, tempting lips. 

  
Graham is looking at him with a strange level calm in his eyes. "Why am I here, Frederick?" he asks. It's barely a question. He just wants to hear Chilton say it.

  
Chilton resists the urge to look away or swallow or or shift from foot to foot. He clears his throat, feeling as though he's trying to dislodge his heart. "The bargain we made..." he says, "do I still have your consent?"

  
Graham's voice is low and even, his gaze unsettlingly direct. "Have you talked to Hannibal about me?"

  
"No."

  
And in the same same flat and careful tone, "Are you going to?"

  
Chilton's voice catches and comes out a whisper. "No, Will."

  
"Do what you want to me, then."


End file.
